Finding Home
by Jack of All Suits
Summary: In the age Kratos grew up in, bandits ransacked villages every day, killing everyone in their path. When a similiar group destroys his home and kills his mother, Kratos has no one to turn to but the mercenary who found him.


**A/N: Hello there! This is Shadow speaking. Now, as you may know, I've been working on humor fics lately, but I decided to make a much more serious multi-chapter fanfiction on Kratos' past (Childhood) you may have seen many different spins on it, but this is my little twist! I also have my very first OC in this! INTODUCING (Drum roll, please!) Zinche!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Tales of Symphonia, but I do own Zinche.**

_**CHAPTER 1**_

A sellsword was never considered to be a man of emotion. Mercenaries were generally held back anyway. But this man… this man was in another league of those. This man had the coldest stormy gray eyes. He was the villain in every fairytale. A monster with no piteous or sympathetic tone in his harsh, calculating demeanor, who ripped through those he was hired to go against with no thoughts to the blood he spilled, the families he'd broken… the children who would never see their father or mother again. He thought only of his job. His sword was an attachment to his arm, and when he wasn't holding it in his hand, he caressed the metal pommel in a fashion that was almost paranoid. He was a mere human, but it could be thought that he had a distant elven relative, for his swift footwork, and strength, were beyond what his race could manage with training that went beyond his twenty-five years of life.

His hair was unruly, and yet somehow neat. The black locks stuck up almost perfectly, considering what he did day-to-day; the same went for his handsome, tanned face. For someone who was constantly in battles, he had very few scars in exception to the one that cut horizontally against his right eyelid. His travelling attire consisted of a loose pair of brown trousers, a black, sleeveless shirt covered in thick leather that worked as armor, and a cloak that was dyed the color of fresh blood. And yet, even with his thunderous and deadly appearance, there was a sense of gentleness about him, hidden beneath his reputation and demeanor.

His stormy eyes wandered to the early morning sky and came across smoke. A chimney perhaps? With a hopeful sigh he set off at a fast run, hoping to find a bed for the night, and a tavern to find a job in.

Ten minutes passed and he was standing in a tiny village, probably so small the kingdom didn't include it. His eyes lazily sweeped the area with disgust. The smoke he had seen came from dozens of burning houses, and the stench of burning flesh stung at the areas within his nose.

'His' name was Zinche. He had a last name, but he had never revealed it to anyone. With a cough he put a handkerchief up to his mouth and inhaled slightly filtered air. He disliked helping people, but in this case he had the feeling that it might pay off.

Once inside the town he felt like retching. The people's faces… some had been burnt completely off, others had been stabbed through with a blade. Although his instincts were rarely wrong, Zinche began to wonder if anyone could have possibly lived through this. That's when he heard it, quiet at first, but, as he ran, it got louder, until he heard the words that a child was screaming, "Help! Mother! Wake up! Why won't they wake up!" He then came upon a scene that shattered his ice-covered heart. A young boy, possibly ten, was bawling over the body of a young woman, possibly in her early thirties. He looked away and felt bile creep up his throat. It was disgusting, even after his years of sellsword work, the woman's eyes were still open, and her hand was clenched over the boy's arm even in death… even with a knife in her heart

"What's wrong with you, Mother? Open your eyes! I'm scared!" the boy wailed pitifully as his auburn hair swayed into his reddish eyes, he was wearing very simple clothing, trousers that hid his bare feet and a white tunic that was dyed red from a shallow cut on his shoulder. "Wake up!" Zinche couldn't stand it anymore. With a wince he walked over and looked down at the boy. "She's… not going to wake up…" He explained slowly.

"Who are you? Are you one of the bad people who hurt my Mother?" The child's eyes widened and he tried to step back, only to be stopped by his dead mother's tight grip.

"No… no, I'm not one of them, Kid." Zinche stared at the hand that kept the kid from running and gently pried the fingers loose.

It happened too quickly for him to avoid, after he was free, Zinche immediately found himself in the boy's surprisingly powerful grip as he hugged him. "Bring back Mother…" he sobbed. "I want her to come back!"

Never had his heart been so close to physically breaking than when Zinche pried him off and said, "I… can't." The result was the ten-year-old sobbing his small heart out in the older man's arms, who looked quite uncomfortable, but still stroked his head soothingly. "I want… my mother back!" Kratos whimpered.

"I'm afraid I can't bring back the dead… but I can take care of you…" Zinche cursed inwardly. What was he saying? He couldn't take on a child! Though he could use an apprentice of sorts.

"But I want…" Kratos fell silent. He knew his mother was gone, but he just couldn't accept it. "Okay…" He hung his head and his eyes were covered by unruly locks of auburn.

"I have to warn you though… it's not going to be a lot of fun. You'll have to work hard." Zinche made one more offer for the boy before him to back down, but Kratos nodded stubbornly. "I'll go with you. You're really nice, Mister."

"Call me Zinche." The mercenary smiled slightly and couldn't resist ruffling the kid's hair as he returned the gesture, pointing at his chest quietly, "Call _me_ Kratos..."

Several days later, Zinche had shown Kratos the simpler ropes of the Sellsword career and was surprised to find the boy hadn't needed a second telling for most of it, but a fifth. He himself had honestly been the dumbest apprentice his teacher could have begged for. "Thank the Gods he and I are patient…" He muttered after showing Kratos for a third time how to tie a good, firm knot. "Okay… I think I got it now!" Kratos held out a new piece of rope that had been tied in the opposite way being asked, forming a whole new knot. "Ah… wrong again, Kid." Zinche covered his eyes with a gloved hand and was surprised to hear muffled sobs in Kratos' direction.

He looked up to find the boy crying quietly while trying again to tie his knot. "I… can't do it!" he finally wailed.

Zinche sighed and hugged the boy gently. For the past few days this was a common occurrence. Kratos, in his initial shock of losing everything he'd known, was an absolute wreck, and cried over what seemed to be the silliest things. "Hush…" Zinche stroked the boys hair quietly, "Calm down. We'll keep doing this until we get it right…" He took the rope and began to repeat the simple knot slowly. "See? The end goes into this opening, not that one." He handed the rope back to Kratos and the child tried again. "This one… goes there…" He held up the finished, correct knot and grinned, "Look, Zinche! Look!" The sellsword forced another small smile. "Great Kratos, now, make fifty so you don't forget." He stood up, "Have them done by the time I get back with something to eat or you'll have none." With that he exited the small camp they had constructed into the surrounding forest, while Kratos smiled at the thought that he now had a new parental figure. Alright, a stricter, less pleasant parental figure, but a parent nonetheless. With that thought he hummed quietly and set to work at his second knot.

It continued that way for several weeks and Zinche found himself becoming attached to his young apprentice. The more they both sat down and talked, the more he realized they were identical in many ways. Kratos had never entered a church praising the Gods and Goddesses in his short life, Zinche had never entered one in his, though his reason was simply that mercenaries 'befouled the Gods' quarters' not that he had ever wanted to enter such a pure area anyway.

One night, they were talking again and Kratos mentioned his dislike for tomatoes. "They're really red." He explained. "I hate the color red!"

"Red? Haven't you ever tasted one before?" Zinche raised and eyebrow and paused in slicing one of the plants. "You never know unless you try."

"Ew! No way!" Kratos made a face and backed away.

"Kratos…" Zinche frowned thunderously and offered him an exceptionally thin slice. "Eat that whole piece. If you still hate it, I'll accept it."

Kratos stared at the floppy, red, juicy piece of tomato indignantly, "But Zinche! Look at it! It's so… gross!"

"Eat it, Kid." He called, sharpening his iron blade using a rather worn whetstone. "Or you won't get anything else for dinner or breakfast."

Kratos made a face and forced the entire piece into his mouth. As the flavor seeped into his tongue he began coughing. "Ugh! UGH!" He swallowed the disgusting thing and fell onto his knees. "I need water!" he whimpered pitifully, "That was horrible!"

Zinche looked up with interest, "You ate it?" he walked over, "Open your mouth." Nothing in there. "Good job, Kid." He handed Kratos a small oak cup filled with water. As he watched the boy swallow loudly he would always remember thinking 'We have a long way to go…'

More months passed and Kratos' birthday arrived. The day was the same as any other until Kratos had several of his 'emotional episodes' that had become quite rare. To cheer him up, Zinche even did most of the chores himself, but was concerned when Kratos simply dwelled in his tent, emitting soft whimpers every now and then.

"Kratos? We need some firewood." Zinche watched the boy clamber out of his tent with the small iron sword he had given him strapped to his waist. "Go get some and hurry back."

The boy nodded quietly and entered the forest, wishing that his family were still alive. That his mother would be baking a fantastic cake for him and the whole village would celebrate. In his thoughts, he took no notice to a peculiar green and silver hawk in the trees. But it certainly noticed him, as it was soon following him closely, divingevery now and then until Kratos finally stopped and looked at it as it cawed gently and landed on his shoulder. "Who're you?" he asked quietly, stroking its head. "Would you like to come with me?" He smiled and continued on his trek through the woods with his new companion.

Back at the camp, Zinche was staring at the sky with interest. Had he seen a protozoan a moment before? No… that was impossible… "The only protozoans that are left are with the Sylvarant and Tethe'alla nobles."

"Zinche! Look!" Kratos rushed into the clearing with the wood and dropped it with a clatter as his new friend squawked indignantly.

Zinche turned around to chastise the boy for dropping the dry sticks so haphazardly but froze at the sight of the hawk. "It can't be… Kratos… that bird on your shoulder…"

"Yeah! Isn't he great? He just came over to me."

"That's a protozoan, kid. You're very lucky to have made such a powerful friend." Zinche stared at the creature and it stared back through intelligent brown eyes. "Very lucky indeed…"

"Oh… well, I called him Noishe. Is that okay, Zinche?" Kratos looked at his teacher for acceptance and the mercenary nodded quietly, "A very fitting name." He decided in approval. "Welcome to our duet, or I suppose trio, Noishe." He smiled faintly and ruffled Kratos' hair in approval. Maybe this wouldn't be as bad as he thought.

**And there you have it. Chapter 1. You're all probably thinking that Kratos is OoC, but please remember that he's only ten. If you knew your mother was dead at that age, you'd be screaming too, and you'd probably be traumatized as well. Now, review please! I want to know if you like my OC, Zinche, and if this idea is any good!**


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